Survival
by endlesslyrium
Summary: Fenris is cold.


Disclaimer; I don't own _Dragon Age_.

Survival

Fenris is cold.

There's a fire going, but the heat can't quite penetrate the general frigidity of the mansion, and the only way for it to actually feel warm is for him to stick his hands in the bloody fire. Which he isn't doing. Again.

He's tempted to crawl into bed and curl up underneath the impossibly thick comforter that adorns it, but people have taken to dropping by his house at random times during the day, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone catch him hiding from the cold like a child. Which he understands is unreasonable, but still. He has a reputation to maintain.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to force the blood back to the outer reaches of his body. Maker it's cold. It's probably warmer outside, but the nobles like to stare at him whenever he leaves the mansion, and he's not in the mood to deal with them today.

He glances down at the fire. Sweet blood of Andraste, the only way it could be more ineffectual is if it were out.

Someone pounds on his door - as if he doesn't know who it is. Everyone else just walks in. It's not like the door is ever locked.

He stares at the fire, trying to will it to be warmer. Damn it's cold. Hawke is still knocking on the door, but he ignores her. She'll give it up in a few minutes and just come in. She always does. He doesn't even know why she bothers knocking. He never answers the door.

He wonders what the weather's like in Tevinter. Warmer, probably. Warm and humid, so that even if it isn't that warm it feels as if your skin is boiling. Or maybe it isn't. It's winter now; it'll probably be a little cooler. Not as cold as it gets here, but not as hot as it can be. Maker he misses the heat. Everything here is so bloody cold all the time.

Although, he thinks, Hawke's estate is probably warm. It probably helps that there are always so many people in there, moving and talking and generating more heat than can possibly be necessary.

There's a knock on the wall to his right, and he glances up. Hawke waves.

"Nice to see you're still such an excellent brooder," she says cheerfully. "In the meantime, it's bloody cold in here."

Fenris shrugs. "I hadn't noticed," he lies. Hawke rolls her eyes.

"Fenris," she says, "if it were any colder, it would be snowing. And you are wearing nothing in the way of sleeves or shoes. Excuse me when I say that that is utter horseshit."

Fenris resists the urge to smile. Strange how often he has to do that when she's around. "I suppose to someone so used to heat, the cold does feel a tad more oppressive."

She laughs. "You're shivering more than I am, you bloody liar," she tells him, coming over and poking his exposed elbow. "What are you trying to do, freeze to death?"

Fenris shrugs. "Passes the time," he offers, and she laughs again.

"Well," she says, grabbing his hands, "I'm not having it."

She drags him out of the room and into the mostly unused bedroom. Fenris pulls back half-heartedly, but she's stronger than she looks, and anyway, he's grateful for the excuse to be moving.

"See," she says, pausing by the bed. "_This_ is a proper blanket. None of that pretentious oversizing here, oh no. Nice and modest, just right for any old Tevinter boy."

Fenris smiles. The comforter is at least twice the size of the actual bed, and colored so garishly that it almost offends the senses. "You should see some of the others," he tells her. "Compared to those, this is as modest as a Chantry mouse."

Hawke laughs again. She does that a lot, Hawke. "I dunno," she says. "Chantry mice can be pretty damn showy, let me tell you."

She pushes the comforter aside and plops onto the bed, pulling him down with her. "Nothing suggestive," she promises, and then pulls the comforter over them both, giggling.

"See?" she asks. "It's perfect."

Fenris fumbles for a moment, unable to see exactly where everything is; it's rather dark under here. Warm, but dark. It almost makes him claustrophobic, but in an oddly comfortable way.

Hawke's hands find him and pull him closer to her, her head finding his shoulder. "Much better," she whispers. Fenris clears his throat.

"Hawke, I-" he starts.

"Survival," she cuts him off. "Not flirting, promise. I'm just cold."

He considers this for a moment, then he carefully runs his fingers over her cheek. He smiles when he finds what he's looking for, and leans over, kissing her.

"Not flirting," he echoes. "Survival."

She laughs.


End file.
